


d e c a d e n c e

by ElasticElla



Series: a bird in hand [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are reasons, really great reasons for why Sam only jacks off alone in his home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	d e c a d e n c e

There are reasons, really great reasons for why Sam only jacks off alone in his home. The first and surprisingly least important one being that he's not an exhibitionist. The second reason is that he knows too much about government cameras, and he'd really rather not have Fury or Hill sit him down to talk about getting off in public or semi-public spaces. The third reason is fairly similar to the second- Avengers Tower getting nixed for camera related reasons. (Like he needed to hand over dirt of himself to Stark.) Fourthly, a workplace romance was just a Bad Idea. It'd mean bad guys playing torture games and the team dynamic getting screwed up. It'd be a mess all around, and the best way to avoid _that_ was to avoid romantic and sexual thoughts about said coworkers. And thus never ever masturbating in a team space or retreat or anywhere associated with the Falcon. 

And the final reason: it's simply way more comfortable in his bed. Naked, with the blinds drawn but window cracked open- partly for air, and partly for ambient noises. It's mostly birds, and he supposes it's fitting that he's always found their chirping calming. 

Tonight the crickets are even louder than the soft patter of rain, the bird calls sporadic and often one-sided. While Sam's window is only open a crack, his bedroom has already been transformed- all humidity and smelling of rain. It's safe and nice, and barring any apocalyptic scenarios, he has the rest of the night to indulge himself. 

He's been absentmindedly touching himself for the past half hour. It's been quite some time since he's had a night off, and he wants to make love to himself. When Sam was younger, in his twenties, he used to jack off hard and fast for his first orgasm and then work himself up to a second over as long as he could draw it out. His recovery time is too slow now, and his mind too fast- too quick to calculate how many hours of sleep he'd lose over a second orgasm. So Sam drags out the foreplay instead, running the tips of his fingers everywhere- down an arm, across a belly, up his chest, crossing his throat, up his thighs, across his other palm, circling his nipples until they feel more sensitive. When the feather-light touches reach his cock, the jolt of arousal is muted, expected. 

The thought that comes when his nails accidentally scratch against his sac is _not_ expected, is: it was highly unlikely he'd meet T'Challa again. T'Challa is an actual _king_ , and a warrior for his people. The chances of Sam ever seeing him in person again are negligible. (And if perhaps, Sam is neglecting the existing chances because of how stunning he is, well, that's his gamble.) 

So Sam thinks about their meeting, only with the two of them alone. Or really, he's just thinking about the way T'Challa took his helmet. It's breaking a rule, thinking about a Falcon memory like this, so he imagines a fantastic palace instead. Sam doesn't put much thought into it, the only set dressing that matters are the deep blue silk pillows T'Challa is propped up on, the low and large circular bed taking over the room. 

He's wearing his Black Panther outfit, because Sam can't bring himself to not include it. T'Challa takes off his helmet nice and slow, and Sam can feel the breath knock out of him as T'Challa's face comes into view. 

Sam's hand isn't even moving anymore, stable at the base of his dick. He knows he could come now, but he doesn't want to- not yet, not so early. 

He does rush the fantasy along a bit though, leaving T'Challa in only his pants and necklace. His fantasy self is in pajamas- sweats and a shirt, which is _exactly_ why this is all a fantasy. (Obviously if he wanted to seduce the real T'Challa, he'd show off his flight patterns- cats chased after that kind of thing, right?)

A platter of grapes appears between them, and before Sam can even wonder at his subconscious, T'Challa is pressing a plump grape against his lips. Sam parts his lips of course, and there's a brief brush of his fingertips to Sam's lips, and then T'Challa's plucking another grape and repeating. It's the hottest thing ever, the flickering touch and Sam isn't even sure when this became a thing or if T'Challa can just make anything sexy- and he's leaning towards the latter. 

But he wants to touch him back. So Sam picks up a grape, and he doesn't quite have the delicacy of the movement down- or perhaps the patience. When he presses the grape to T'Challa's lips, he presses down hard and he's not coy about it- he knows what he wants and wants to make sure that T'Challa wants it too. T'Challa takes grape with an amused smile. His only other response is to kiss the two fingers, pressure increasing briefly, teasingly. 

Sam can't fucking breathe. 

T'Challa is staring at Sam like Sam holds all the answers, it's completely overwhelming, too much to consider as the fantasy fades away. His room comes back in sharp contrast, hotter and more humid than before. There's sweat trickling down his body, and every single one of his muscles is tensed, waiting.

Sam isn't sure when he got so close to orgasming, trembling over the brink, and when his fist shifts up, he's coming. He does a quick tissue clean up, resolving to shower in the morning. Sam's already half-asleep when he realizes he didn't even get to the making out part of the fantasy, and wow, that level of crush could have been bad. 

.

Steve's ringtone wakes him up at five am sharp, and Sam's already said _hello_ before he's fully conscious. 

“Morning buddy. T'Challa invited us all to his official coronation ceremony, and we can check in on Bucky's recovery. Plane's leaving in an hour. You in?”

Well fuck. 

“…yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
>    
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>  [follow for more soft trash](http://parkwest.tumblr.com/)


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